21 Guns
by FlamingDranzer
Summary: Mello was a fighter from the day of his birth to until the night his heart stopped beating. He didn't give up until the very end.


**Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note or any of its characters. Nor do I own Green Day or 21 Guns.**

**Warnings: Spoilers, death, language.**

**Author's Note: I'm writing this for Mello's birthday, which is incidentally his last (as he dies next month, January 2010). I wanted to do a tribute of sorts for him because he really is a great character. Anyhow, I hope you enjoy (and celebrate Mello's birthday by sending him lots of chocolate)!**

**21 Guns**

_Do you know what's worth fighting for?_

_When it's not worth dying for?_

_Does it take your breath away_

_And you feel yourself suffocating?_

Mello reclined on the zebra-patterned leather couch, head lolling gently over its back, feet resting on the beat-up coffee table (courtesy of Matt, nonetheless). His gloved hands fidgeted for a chocolate bar, eventually finding one hidden between two surprisingly soft cushions. His fingers peeled apart the foil hastily, mouth watering in anticipation of the sweet snack.

The chocolate was in between his teeth in an instant, which now hurt because of the sheer power behind the bite. But that is Mello... fierce, powerful, and _deadly_.

A small chunk lodged itself in the back of his throat, causing him to choke slightly. "Stupid shit," he muttered. "Not like I don't have enough on my plate."

A bald-headed, well-muscled goon shuffled in the room awkwardly, looking at his leader with frightened eyes.

"What is it now?" Mello demanded, head whipping up and angrily glaring at the man.

"We still haven't found any new leads on that guy, boss," he apologized, shoulders drooping slightly.

"Then get out until you find one," grunted Mello, tossing a nearby (empty) can of beer at the lackey's head. He let out a pitiful meep and hurried out.

"No leads. Nothing," Mello mumbled, now alone. "Even if there was, what's the chances of me getting out of this shit-hole alive? Should I even bother if I won't be alive to savor it?"

Mello snorted and shook his head, long blond bangs following into his eyes. "No," he declared with determination. "It'll be worth it. Just to beat Near and nothing more."

_Does the pain weigh out the pride?_

_And you look for a place to hide?_

_Did someone break your heart inside?_

_You're in ruins_

Matt allowed himself into Mello's bedroom, the only refuge from the nitwits of the Mafia. Matt was the only one, besides Mello, with a key to the room. He wasn't surprised to find his friend flung on top of his bed, hair messy and clothes rumpled.

"Having a good day?" Matt joked, letting out a chuckle. Mello let out a muffled, "Up yours."

"Anytime, baby." Matt winked, sitting beside Mello. The blond instantly slapped him lightly, playfully, showing a little bit of that side that he allowed no one else to see.

"Gets tiring, dealing with these dipshits day in and day out," Mello remarked, pushing himself up to a sitting position. Their shoulders touched, Matt's left to Mello's right, but the contact wasn't uncomfortable. It was familiar, reminiscent of earlier days spent playing in Wammy's House and causing trouble.

"Gee, and I wonder why _I _started smoking," said Matt. "Put some nicotine in your chocolate and we'll trade."

"What sense does that make?" Mello guffawed. "Then we'll both be addicted, just like you."

"I can quit whenever I want, just not today. It's not a good day," Matt tried to reason.

"Oh, and why not?"

"I got a 'Game Over.'"

"I see."

A few moments of comfortable silence passed before Matt added, "You know, I'm always here to help."

_One, 21 guns_

_Lay down your arms, give up the fight_

_One, 21 guns_

_Throw up your arms into the sky, you and I_

It wasn't often that in the city of Los Angeles one could flee to a nearby rooftop to look at the stars. The smell of tropical alcoholic beverages, a symbol of the nightlife, wafted all the way up to the roof, so high that it nearly pierced the dark heavens. That was why Mello leaned against a misplaced chunk of metal, arms crossed and staring at the stars.

For a moment, he could have sworn the bells of Wammy's House were ringing in his ears.

The door opened and closed fifteen feet away from him, and instinctively, he readied his gun. Being a Mafia leader isn't a safe business, never was to begin with.

"Just me, Mells," Matt assured, slowly moving towards Mello. The blond hastily returned the gun to its resting place, heart calming.

"It's a nice night," stated Mello, looking back at the sky.

"It is," Matt agreed, lighting up a cigarette and moving to stand beside Mello.

"Even if it were pouring right now," Matt began, releasing smoke from his nostrils, "it'd still be nice. Dreams are in the sky, you know. Just gotta reach for them, even if God decides he hates you and wants to rain on your parade."

Mello raised an eyebrow and wanted to ask what exactly Matt had meant by that, but the gamer was already burying himself in a video game.

_When you're at the end of the road_

_And you lost all sense of control_

_And your thoughts have taken their toll_

_When your mind breaks the spirit of your soul_

To this day, he could still remember the smell of his own burning flesh, being licked away by those devilishly hot flames. The pain was still fresh in his mind, and he could do nothing but lay and burn. The white hot feeling was overwhelming his body and spirit; rocks from the crumbling building landed on his weakened form. Before his bright blue eyes, he saw his life flashing and blinking.

The image of a candle flickering, the wick shrinking more and more, haunted him the most. One single candle, bright red, slowly whittling away to little more than a pool of useless wax.

"Mello!"

Was that his name, being shouted from far away? "Mello! Where are you?"

The voice was panicked, and Mello could barely smell the fear over the rotten stench of burning muscle and fat. He desperately wanted to cry out, "I'm here!"

He opened his mouth to speak, and nothing more than a raspy, "I'm... here..." emerged. It was barely audible to his own ears above the sound of crackling fire.

Suddenly, he felt the weight of the bricks lift from his chest. A face was in front of him, but he couldn't recognize who it was. His eyelids drooped as he fell into the deepest darkness.

"Mello..."

_Your faith walks on broken glass_

_And the hangover doesn't pass_

_Nothing's ever built to last_

_You're in ruins_

When Mello first awoke days later, he found that he could only open one eye. Almost immediately after that frightening discovery, pain surged through his body from head to toe. _What sort of Heaven is this?_ he questioned, squeezing his eye shut to fight off the torture.

When a cool cloth, soaked in water just the right temperature, was placed on his forehead, he felt momentary relief from his suffering. Courage returning, he opened his eye once more. The view slowly came into focus, a white ceiling, white walls, red hair...

Wait.

"Matt?" Mello rasped, throat desert-dry.

"You're awake," the gamer replied in his usual monotone, but the windows to his soul showed a different portrayal of his emotions. "You've been out for a while."

Matt held a glass of cold water to Mello's lips, who eagerly drank the liquid as if he had never even tried it once in his short life.

"How long?" Mello asked, normal voice slightly returning.

"Few days," Matt answered, leaning back in his chair. The two front legs lifted off the ground, and Matt used his own leg to steady the wooden furniture so he wouldn't have an unfortunate accident.

"Hang in there, buddy," Matt encouraged. "Rest some more. I'll be around when you wake up."

Mello wasn't just your atypical smart guy, he was a _phoenix_.

_One, 21 guns_

_Lay down your arms, give up the fight_

_One, 21 guns_

_Throw up your arms into the sky, you and I_

The day finally came, Matt knew, when the sun finally began shining brightly in the sky and when clouds dotted the sapphire blue. The morning was calm, peaceful, as if it were something out of a fairytale. Briefly concerned, Matt twisted his neck so he could see Mello's body. The blond still lay on the bed, too weak and god damn _tired_ to do much of anything during his bouts of consciousness.

What he saw was unexpected: Mello determined to rise from the bed. The blond turned onto his side and was struggling to push himself up with his arms. Frail and skinny from a lack of nourishment, he panted heavily just to accomplish the normally simple task.

Matt's breath was taken away from his lungs when Mello managed to position himself so that he was sitting.

"You sure you're ready?" Matt questioned.

"I'm not going to die here, in this shitty rathole," Mello stated with fierceness.

Without any assistance from Matt, Mello stood. His knees shook and his hands trembled, but he wasn't going to give in. He was a fighter to the end.

Mello did allow Matt, though, to help him remove the bandages. That was how Mello regained sight in the bandaged eye. The new scar, red as the flames that had caused it, clashed against his pale skin.

_Did you try to live on your own_

_When you burned down the house and home?_

_Did you stand too close to the fire_

_Like a liar looking for forgiveness from a stone?_

Matt knew something was up the moment Mello had called him on his cell phone, asking him to come into their apartment. Mello was perched in a leather armchair, and Matt awkwardly sat on the sofa. Mello didn't look at him at first. His gaze was unfocused, though his eyes indicated that he was staring absent-mindedly at the wooden floor.

Minutes of silence passed... Five... Ten... Fifteen... Twenty.

Twenty-five minutes into Matt's count, Mello cleared his throat. He refocused his gaze directly into Matt's eyes, as if he was testing him for any sort of flaws. Matt fidgeted with his fingers nervously, feeling awkward yet again.

"Mail." The name was said seriously as Mello continued to survey him.

"Yeah, Mihael?" Matt asked, the name feeling strange and foreign on his tongue.

"I want to know something," Mello stated. "I need you to do me a favor."

"Shoot," Matt said, leaning back into the sofa.

"Do you know Takada?" questioned Mello. Matt nodded in response. "Good," Mello continued. "We're going to kidnap her."

Matt's heart fluttered in excitement and dread. "_The_ Takada?" he clarified.

"Yes, Matt. _The _Takada. Do you want to go through with it?"

"I'm down if you are," Matt answered, feeling safe and in danger at the same time.

"You'll distract them," Mello explained. "Set off a smoke bomb. I'll swoop in and take the bitch."

"Easy enough," Matt said.

"We'll probably get killed, do you know that?"

"And that didn't matter when you were in the Mafia and I was your dog?"

"Smart-ass," Mello muttered, a small smile gracing his lips.

"I'll do it whenever you give the word," Matt assured. "But... just in case," he drawled, "I wanna go to the arcade. You know, just for kicks."

Mello snorted. "As long as we go to the convenience store and get me some damn chocolate."

"It's a deal," Matt agreed, chuckling a bit.

_When it's time to live and let die_

_And you can't get another try_

_Something inside this heart has died_

_You're in ruins_

Mello knew the moment that he begun following Matt on the streets of Tokyo, both using their favorite vehicles, that they were going to die. He knew he would not live until Kira's downfall. As much as he tried to fool himself, that nagging voice in the back of his mind told him, "Today is the day. Today is the day. Today is the day."

When he saw Matt's lifeless body on the miniature television screen, there was no doubt in his mind that his plan had partially failed. To see his best friend covered in blood and bullets, holes pierced through his body and a single cigarette on his chest... It took all of his self-control to push forward.

He knew that he would die soon, as well. He would be another victim of Kira's evil plot. But, Mello was making a _sacrifice_, almost as great as L's. The voice in the back of his mind added, "But you won't die in vain. Near will win. You will be avenged. You, L, and Matt."

As the truck rolled to a stop, Mello felt a surging pain race through his chest. This was the end. He knew it. He was aware. But, the pain was brief. His head whacked against the steering wheel and his wide eyes were open for all to see.

No. He didn't die in vain.

_One, 21 guns_

_Lay down your arms, give up the fight_

_One, 21 guns_

_Throw up your arms into the sky_

_One, 21 guns_

_Lay down your arms, give up the fight_

_One, 21 guns_

_Throw up your arms into the sky, you and I_

"Hey, Matt?" the young Mello, no older than seven years old, asked.

"What is it, Mells?" responded Matt, only five or six.

"Let's sneak out tonight," Mello said impulsively.

"Sounds fun." Matt grinned.

"Dangerous, too," Mello added with a nod and a smile.

The pair left Wammy's House at precisely midnight and returned at five in the morning. Even though they returned unharmed, until the day they died, danger would forever be a part of their lives.

They were lucky. That's all.


End file.
